Roll Over Beethoven
by WelcometoDystopia
Summary: After being tricked by a quickly ranking organisation, Alex is sent back in time to 1960. Completely stranded and trying to get home, Alex is taken on the biggest eye-opening experience of his life. From getting caught up in the youth rebellion, to befriending the man who ruined his life beyond repair. But will he return home? And furthermore, will he want to?
1. Heart of London

_**Bonjour my little Alex Rider fiends.**_

_**I am your master, and this is my new story. I like goats. **_

_**So thanks for checking this out. This is something I've been working on for a long time, and I've only just posted it. I'm hoping you will like it, as I have thought it over quite a lot and made sure it's as original as I can get it. The plot and concept is completely my own and was inspired by a dream I have. I am, quite literally, the Martin Luther King of Fanfiction. **_

_**Anyway, this below is the full summary. I am very bad at them, so please excuse it. The story will be much better, I promise. **_

_**Alex Rider was stuck. For the first time in his life, he found himself completely stranded. Not in a social situation, or in another country. Not even in an enemies terrain, or in space, as he had previously found himself. No. This time he was completely out of his depth, and the depth of any man before him. Alex Rider was stuck in 1960. Faced with a whole new world of worries, he has to find his way from the unfamiliar world, back into his own day and age. But can he do it, not knowing even the basics? And more importantly, will he want to?**_

_**There it is, my awful summary. I can only apologise, and point out that not everyone is perfect, not even me, tough let's admit, I am pretty damn close. **_

_**I am merely joking, like thee joker, I am not a stuck up bitch. **_

_**So here's the first instalment. It might be a little shorter than the ones to come, and a little confusing to begin with, so I apologise in advance. I hope you'll enjoy it. Everything will be revealed through the fic. Please leave a review if you like this, it would mean an awful lot!**_

Time slowed down. In that one moment, it was almost like someone had pressed the pause button on his life.

One word sprung to Alex Riders mind in that brief moment, one definition to match it, _one freakishly accurate word and definition. _

Insidious. Proceeding in a gradual, subtle way, but with harmful effects.

At the same time, so did another.

"Bastards," he rasped, all too late registering the sickeningly smug look, the carefully planned trap he'd just so easily skipped into.

Anger shot through his body. Surprisingly, it was more aimed at himself than at the small group of men in front of him. _How the hell had he fallen for that?_ Or more to the point, how had he let a group of thespians, of all people, to be the ones to trick him?

"Goodbye, Alex Rider."

He opened his mouth. Why he did so, he wasn't sure. It didn't matter now anyway, not with where he was going. He was cut off as soon as his mouth opened, the feeling of a thousand knives plunging into his whole body making him want to cry out loud. He lost his breath, trying to draw another one, but only causing himself to choke on the stubborn air that refused to aid his lungs. He slammed his eyelids tight together, the blackness that followed the action greeting him like an old friend. Which in many ways, it was, especially at a time like this.

His head went fuzzy, he swayed on his feet. He felt the ground beneath him fall. He opened his mouth to scream, wrapping his arms around his body in a defensive stance. However, his breath was swept away once more, his lungs now begging for some relief. He waited, tensing his body, anticipating a fall into nothingness. His heart raced so fast he feared it would rip straight through his chest and run a mile.

The sweet, black river of unconsciousness skimmed through his body. Thankfully, he plunged into it.

-23rd October 2012. 07:03am-

The morning was a pleasant one.

The sky shone a distorted rainbow, colours from Yale blue to crimson red, and every other shade in between. The tall buildings stood proud, patriotic, right in the heart of London. The infamous river Thames glistened a golden-grey in the rising sun.

However, the atmosphere inside the public face of MI6, the SIS building, couldn't have been more opposing to the beautiful morning.

The room was oblong, plain and dull. The walls were black, the floor was blank, the furniture was blank, even the faces of the eleven people sat around the table was blank. The room was devoid of any decoration, description, or giveaway to its purpose. The only objects were the long, glass table, the plain black chairs placed around it, and an empty screened plasma screen on the opposite wall.

At the head of the table was an aging man. His face was as grey as the water of the Thames, his features about as lively as the still river. His face was shorn of any emotion, his posture tense and alert. He sat completely in control, twenty eyes fixed directly on him, each awaiting his words, his verdict, his decision. It was clear in his air of control that he called the shots. He was Alan Blunt.

When he spoke, his voice was just as empty as his appearance.

"I think it is clear why we are all seated around this table."

It was silent, each person clinging on his words. He paused for a moment, but no one dared to speak, and so he continued in the same monotone voice.

"Alex Rider and his success, or lack thereof, in the recent _Beak_ assignment." He paused again, and cleared his throat, bringing himself to his feet, his stance was stiff and awkward, much like that of an ironing board. "We all know of the Beak assignment which we have been investigation over the past few months, but to recap," he produced a black remote control from a pocket inside his jacket. With the twitch of a finger, the black screen sprung to life, lighting up.

The image on the screen was that of the outline of a mask. The mask was outlined in black with a white background, showing a long, beaked mask accurate to that of a fourteenth century plague doctor.

"_Beak,_" he began, "are a theatrical company based in Liverpool, England, a company that dates back to the seventeenth century. During mid-April, it came to the attention of us-" Blunt cut off a hand shot up, "yes, Crawley?"

The dark haired man slowly lowered his hand. His eyebrows knitted together, shaking his head in confusion. "But sir, if Beak are based in the United Kingdom, in _England_, then why is it not the issue of MI5?"

"An excellent question John, but one not for today. We are on a strict time limit as it is, without having to expand it further. I feel it's safe to say that MI5 have concluded that this is more of our area of expertise, and find themselves incapable of contributing towards the cause directly at this moment of time."

Crawley fell silent, his eyes focusing on the screen once again.

Blunt continued from where he had been cut off, "Back in April we were notified by MI5 that Beak had been somewhat becoming a threat. We sent in several agents posed as actors and discovered there was something being hidden. It wasn't discovered what, until recently,"

He clicked at the remote again, and the screen changed. This time it was a scan of a hand –written note. The handwriting was messy and difficult to read.

"We sent in Agent Rider to assess the threat. As usual, he delivered back within a couple of weeks as to the nature of the threat. Yesterday evening we received this letter, coded, but when interpreted the word 'time machine' can clearly be extracted." Blunt paused, his eyes momentarily drifting towards the window, scanning over the horizon, which was reflected on his glassy eyes, "We haven't been in contact with Alex since eight-twenty-six yesterday afternoon. His telecommunications devises have been cut off entirely. We can't any of his gadgets. It's almost as though he's just…simply…disappeared…"

For the split of a second, just after Blunts voice drew off, something seemed to meet his eyes. It wasn't fear, or concern, or _worry_…it was curiosity. He blinked hard, and the emotion was gone as quickly as it has arrived.

A dark woman spoke out suddenly. She had the seat on the left of Blunts, and worked closer with him than any other in the room.

"Rider has a habit of doing sudden disappearing tricks." She said, her voice clear and accent-less.

"Not like this." The heavy Liverpudlian accent came from the other side of the table. All eyes went to the large man who was clearly deep in thought. His face was stern, straight, and serious. He was recognised Ben Daniels, a quickly advancing agent and close friend of the Rider boy. "Thespians tend to erm, how can I phrase this, 'expand the mind' quite frequently? How do we know this 'time machine' isn't just some sort of pipe dream?"

His question seemed to spark off a chain of comments around the table.

Tulip Jones cut the various remarks off, her tone now stern, "because Rider wouldn't tell us there was one unless he had seen it with his own mind."

"What do they even want with a bloody time machine?" Ben shook his head in disbelief. It seemed he'd forgotten he was in the room with some of the most influential people in the country, it seemed that he didn't even care.

"If we knew the answer we wouldn't be wasting time having a nice chit-chat." Came a strong Australian drawl.

"I didn't think nice was a word worth associating with _you people_," Ben muttered under his breath, catching the glares of various people around the table. His comment, however, went ignored.

Every head looked up at Blunt as he cleared his throat again. He pressed another button and the screen changed. It now showed a rough-looking brick alleyway. There was a red door on the wall of the alley. Above it, a wooden sign with the simple word 'mask' painted on in what was probably perceived to be formal lettering.

He progressed with the meeting, his tone as formal and direct as ever, "this is the building in which Mask is based. It is a two-floored house which has been converted into a small theatre, and according to our source, the home of the apparent 'time machine'."

"This is mental." Bed muffled, covering his face with his hands.

Again, Blunt ignored the remark. "We will be sending agents into the building to investigate. There will be a small group, for precautionary measures. They will each be issued with 'search warrants' and weapons, and will be required to know the basics in self-defence and know the area well. It is for this reason that we have selected Ben Daniels-" the moan of Ben went unnoticed, "and his previous SAS unit, K-Unit, which consists of three other men, Nathan Blacksmith, Scott Redbone, and Calvin Granger."

"They don't even know the area!" Ben exclaimed.

"No," Blunt agreed, "but you do. You grew up just around the corner from the location."

"I think I do remember…" Ben muttered sarcastically.

"So then it's agreed. When our unit detect the threat they will report back to Special Operations. We will get backup to bring it back here, and arrest and interrogate key members of Mask."

It was silent. Ben knew that the plan had already been set in stone, so there wasn't much point opposing it. He knew the real reason he'd been selected for the assignment hadn't been the fact that he knew the area, or that he was well trained. These points did contribute to it, yes, but the real reason was obvious to him. It was because of how close he was to Alex. Well, how close he had become to the boy in recent times. He would never say it aloud, but he was like a brother to him. He knew that this personal element would be used to drive him to find Alex through determination, and furthermore, find the truth about Mask. This was exactly what Blunt wanted.

Ben's thoughts drifted to Jack suddenly. Over the past couple of months, he'd grown quite close to the woman. He thought of how she'd react to the news that Alex was missing. Ben personally didn't believe in time travel, it was the stuff of sci-fi junkies and crack-heads, but he knew Jack was into all the 'weird things'. How would she react to the information that there may have been a time machine invented?

"Mr Daniels?"

He shook his head, his thoughts cut off abruptly.

"Sorry?" He asked, his vice more polite than usual.

"You'll be leaving later today. We can't risk any harm coming to Agent Rider, or the possible time contraption. A file will be on your desk when we return to the Royal and General. Please pay a visit to Mr Smithers. Your unit should be meeting you shortly."

Blunt glanced down at the simple watch on his wrist. Ben knew from the slight look of satisfaction that everything had gone exactly on time and as planned.

"Thank you all for attending. Each of you have a file on your desks listing your tasks and priorities involving the Mask assignment, I hope to see you all in our progress evaluation tomorrow. You may leave."

And with that, Ben left the room. Once again, the man had managed to leave him dumbfounded and worried. _What had Alex gotten himself into this time? _

_**That's it for now, I'm afraid. This is more of a preface, and next chapter will be much longer. **_

_**Do you like it? **_

_**What has happened to Alex?**_

_**Who are Mask? **_

_**What will K-unit find? **_

_**What do you think is coming up? **_

_**Thank you for reading! I spent valuable revising time on this so please review. If I get enough reviews and people interested, I'll update really fast. **_


	2. Under the Streetlight

_**A/N: Hello, my sluts. **_

_**I'm kidding. **_

_**Sorry this is slightly late. I've just had my maths exams, and they've passed now. I was revising a lot since maths is one of my worst subjects. In three weeks I have my mock exams (fucked up much?), but I'm not too fussed about them so I should be able to update fairly regularly.**_

_**Thank you so much to anyone who read, favourited, followed or reviewed. **__**You made my absolute day you little dream maker. You are the Santa of my muddled mind, and I love you all dearly. **_

_**So here is the next instalment of Roll Over Beethoven. I changed the title from The Man Time Forgot, because I have the power to do that. **_

_**This chapter will be mainly Alex. I wanted to give some detail into his awakening and arrival into the past, so there isn't any K-Unit in this one I'm afraid. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and please leave a review!**_

_** make this more realistic, I wrote the speech of some people in the way they would actually talk. I know some isn't correct in grammar, but I wanted to stress how they pronounced and said things. Also, there is some reference to illegal immigrants and slight ignorance to race from some characters in this story, but it is how things would have been said back in that time, not any personal thoughts of my own. Thanks. **_

-8:26pm. 23rd October, 1960-

A buzzing.

The noise was no more than a light hum in the back of the pool of nothingness. Slowly, it spread through his unconscious mind. He felt the slight vibrations fill his body, warmth gradually sweeping through him. The warm sensation settled in his stomach, and he moved his arm thoughtlessly, gaining feeling back in his limbs. His head rolled to the left, and his thoughts returned.

His first realisation was that he was lying down. He rose his shoulders, stretching his back. He found himself groaning, the noise sounding like an explosion in the mute world around him. He lifted his hands, shivering at how heavy they felt, and rubbed his eyes. Slowly, he peeked open.

The brightness invaded his mind. He gasped slightly, slamming his eyes back shut as they watered profusely.Sluggishly, he pulled his body up, hearing the various cracks along his spine and neck. He groaned again, feeling slight relief as he stretched his arms.

His body shivered. His eyes gently fluttered open, deep brown depths glaring out at the unfamiliar surroundings.

He was in a small, dark room. It couldn't have been bigger than his bedroom back in Chelsea, but looked much smaller due to the fact that it was cluttered up with large wooden boxes, stocked unsafely and piled high. Alex sharply inhaled as the memories came flooding back to him, and as a result, choked on the dust infected air.

_The Beak assignment. _

The thought of his last encounter with MI6 was followed by a chain of memories from Alex's stay with Mask, each more sickening than the other. Eventually, the last conscious memory hit him harder than the crates stacked high above him ever could.

_The Time Machine._

The unsettling smirk and shrill comment of 'goodbye, Alex Rider' ran through his mind. He immediately leapt to his feet, stumbling as they almost collapsed under the sudden strain. He leant on a stray box, noticing only now how cold his environment was. His heart thumped harder, and his breath fogged up like smoke in front of his eyes.

He shook his head, knowing time travel was impossible. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, something that was so obvious that it almost caused him to laugh. Mask was a theatrical group, it would be more than easy for them to act like Nazi's, or Victorians, or whatever the hell they wanted to pull off. As long as they kept him in the building, he wouldn't know any better. And where was he now?

He fully observed his surroundings in detail. He looked around the room, taking in all the detail he could as his eyes adjusted. The only light was coming in from a small window at the top of the tall room, on the opposite wall to where Alex was. The only objects in the room were the large crates. He looked to the one he had previously been leaning on, running a finger over the jagged wooden edge. He guessed they were about a square meter, and there seemed to be a great many of them in the room. His eyes narrowed, predicting there were about thirty to forty in the cluttered room.

The room where they keep props, he decided with a nod. As though to confirm, he leant down and began pulling at the top of the crate. After several seconds of struggling, he managed to free the lid. He narrowed his eyes at the contents, his mouth opening slightly.

The crate was filled with pieces of scrap metal. He creased his brow, _they didn't look like props_.

Reluctantly, he turned towards the door behind him. He leant forward carefully, tense on his feet, and pressed an ear to the wood. He listened intensely, but no sound met his ears.

He stepped back, biting his lip. His stomach churned, something wasn't right. He had trusted his instinct on so many occasions, and it had always proved to be the right thing to do. But now it told him that something was very wrong with the situation he was in, and he couldn't deny it.

He shook his head, reaching out for the cold handle of the door. He haltingly twisted the knob, his stomach sinking as it refused to shift. He pushed the door, biting down on his lip harder.

"Come on," He growled, more cold smoke pouring from between his lips as he spoke, voice husky and full of curious frustration.

He growled, slamming his fist against the door aggressively. It was obvious it had been locked.

Alex turned, slamming his back against the door in anger.

Suddenly, something caught his eye. Slowly, a smirk formed across his lips.

The window.

It was small, located right at the top of the left hand corner of the wall facing opposite him. He knew his figure would be able to squeeze out of it quite easily. And as if that didn't make it the perfect escape route, the stacked boxes were practically a staircase leading up to it.

Warily, he propped his knee upon the stray box, already planning which boxes he would stand on. He pulled himself on top, bringing himself to his feet. He stood for a moment, stepping around on the lid, making sure it was stable enough. Even if it wasn't, he knew he would climb it anyway. He only had two choices, climb out of the place, or sit and wait to either freeze to death or be murdered by whatever Mask psychopath would send in after him.

The first definitely sounded the best of the two.

Alex made his way across the room from box to box. Soon enough, he had reached the taller stacks of three or four boxes, and had decided to move slower and with caution. He knew that one wrong move would send them all falling down, and could even land him squished to death under them.

With the slightly disturbing thought in mind, he reached the window. He smirked, seeing how it was bigger than expected when he was closer. Unhinging the lock, and pushing it open as far as he could, he peeked his head out.

"Shit."

The word came from his mouth almost instinctively.

Looking down, he saw he was about five metres from the water's surface level. He looked up, the familiar sight of Albert Docks greeting him. He knew the sight from the weeks he had spent on the Beak assignment.

The sound of the waves crashing against the brick wall beneath him made his stomach churn again. His chin quivered with the cold, frosty night. The sky was a royal blue, the night rolling in. To his right, there was a street lamp, giving a yellowish glow.

A plan formulated in his mind.

He poked his head out further, noting how odd it would look to ships gone by with a head popping out of the wall, and calculated the distance between the side of the building he was leaning out of, the sea that sat just below him, and the rail separating the walkway from the sea just to his left.

_Probable_, he thought, once again cursing Alan Blunt to within an inch of his life.

With one last look at the waves under him, he retreated back into the building.

Alex shivered again, reminding himself that if he made the jump, he would put jumpers on his Christmas list. He almost laughed at how calm he was when facing death. He knew all too well that he could die at any moment, but he also knew there was the fair chance he would survive. And after a few missions with Mi6, he had quickly learnt that dwelling on actions that could result in death never did him any good.

It was with this thought that he slowly began lowering himself out of the window, legs first. His teeth sank into his lip in concentration, muscular arms clinging to the slight bump of the windowsill with every last bit of strength he had.

The smell of salt lingered in his nose, eyes fixed on the red painted railing two metres to his side. Another wave crushed against the wall, their drops licking at his ankles. He was reminded that drowning was not a pleasant way of death.

He took a deep breath, focusing all his attention on his muscles. He began moving his body from side to side, struggling as his knuckled turned white above his head, clinging onto the windowsill.

Gradually, the momentum built up. It started to get easier to swing from left to right. He kept a simple rhythm in his mind.

_Left,_

_Right,_

_Left,_

_Right,_

_Left,_

_Right,_

He gritted his teeth, but continued with the repetition in his head.

_Left,_

_Right,_

_Left,_

_Right,_

_Left,_

_Right,_

He let go.

For a moment, he felt as though he was flying. The momentum created by swinging his body from side to side sent him lurching out towards the rail. He pulled in his legs, stretched out his arms, and kept his eyes focused on the target.

He felt the cold metal on his pals. His body swung violently as he brought himself to a sudden stop, his face scraping on the rough brick wall. He felt the pull on his arm sockets, but ignored it, overwhelmed with the knowledge that he had hold of the rail, and was safe.

He cursed himself for thinking he was safe. He still didn't know where he was.

Pulling himself up, he placed his knees on the cool ground. He brought himself to a stand, clinging onto the rail as he climbed over it.

Alex let out the held breath, throwing his head back and awarding himself a moment of serenity and time to recollect his thoughts. He opened his eyes, looking out towards the docks. The water actually looked peaceful now his body wasn't dangerously in risk of falling into it.

He ran a hand through his fair hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He looked down at himself, taking in for the first time that he had been wearing summer clothes, due to the odd heat wave Britain had faced over the past week, despite the fact that it was October. He was wearing thin black jeans and an even thinner _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt, nothing but vans on his feet. He hadn't even bought a jacket.

Abruptly, Alex was brought back into the real world with the sound of giggles behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, his instincts screaming at him once again.

"What the fuck is he wearing?" Came the whisper of what sounded like a woman. Alex heard the slight Liverpudlian twang in her voice.

"I dunno, maybe he's a foreigner or summin'." Replied the voice of another girl, the same accent ringing out.

"He looks quite scruffy dun' he? Maybe he jumped the cargo ships 'ere illegally?" Added another whisper.

Alex knew they were talking about him. He narrowed his eyes subconsciously, there was nothing wrong with what he was wearing. It was barely any different to what every teen wore.

"But he's white, Dot." The voice of the first girl said, getting louder and louder.

"And what?" 'Dot' added, "Foreigners can't be white can't they? So now they all 'ave to be black, just 'cause Sandra says so?"

Sandra and Dot? Alex scoffed, what sort of evil parents call their kids that? And the girls had the cheek to call him on his attire.

Alex turned, hearing just about enough. He gasped, eyes wide, staring at the odd girls in front of him.

There were three of them, a blonde and two brunettes. Their hair was beehive high, hair sprayed to the max, with knee-high boots and tiny skirts. All of them wore leather jackets, matching each of the tiny skirts, and each had a lit cigarette in their hands. The blonde had huge eyelashes, which Alex guessed to be fake, which were now fluttering as he turned.

"Not bad for a foreigner," She tilted her head, muttering to the brunette next to her, only to get ignored.

The other two were eyeing him up, slight looks of scrutiny on their faces.

Alex was stood, gawping at the odd choice of fashion.

"Y'alright there, you look lost." The brunette with dark eyes eventually said, voice somehow husky, and gaze flirty.

Alex regained himself, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He saw the looks change on their faces as he spoke, noticing the accent he had, they seemed to step closer.

"You sure 'bout that?" The blonde asked, stepping closer. The other three followed her, and Alex stepped back.

"Positive." He replied, his voice blank and giving nothing away.

The other brunette fluttered her eyelashes, the trio now starting to circle him. He stood still, tense, ready.

"So, you from London then? I know an accent when I 'ear one." The dark eyed Brunette said.

"Shut up Dot, everyone knows 'ow Londoners sound." The blonde snapped.

Dot glared at the blonde, stopping her pacing and taking a long draw from the cigarette before exhaling it from her nose. The other two came to a stop, giving Alex a chance to step back out of their range.

"Actually," he began, "I was wondering if either of you girls had the time?"

The other brunette looked up at him, fluttering her eyelashes again.

"We have the time." She confirmed, voice dry. "But it'll cost ya'."

Alex sighed, why did he have to come across the odd ones?

"I don't have any money with me." He muttered, his eyes never leaving any of them.

The blonde let back a laugh, high pitched and chilling. "We don't mean money."

Suddenly, it clicked.

Alex could have laughed, if he wasn't so irritated at the situations he always found himself in.

"I don't prostitute myself, thanks." He summed up simply, poker face intact.

His comment sent the three girls into laughter, much to his dismay. He looked around, surveying his surroundings. He recognised the street, he had been living close to it for the past two weeks and travelling back and forth to Mask. But there was something hugely different about it. The roads were paved with chunky bricks, streetlamps that stood tall, and lacked the sense of technology that he took for granted. War-style telephone boxes stood at each end of the street, looking fresh and new.

The words rung again in his head,

'_Goodbye, Alex Rider.'_

The next sentence from Dot pulled him from his sickening realisation.

"You're alright, you. For a Londoner that is. 'Ere, want a ciggie?" She offered him a pack, holding it out. Alex shook his head feebly, colour running from his cheeks as he surveyed the surroundings, barely listening to the girls anymore.

_Time machine. _

It couldn't be, he reminded himself. Time travel was impossible, the thing of sci-fi and junkies. But how had the whole street changed whilst he had been merely slumbering? And what was with that weird sensation he had felt yesterday, stepping into the said 'trap into time'?

_They probably drugged you, _he told himself, the sick feeling getting worse and worse by the second. _You're not back in time._

His instincts were now going hysterical. His head spun, he felt sick. His breath picked up, but he tried to force himself to calm down.

He cut the blonde off mid-sentence, heart hamming through his shirt.

"What's the date?" He all-but-yelled in her face.

She creased her forehead, staring at him in confusion at his odd behaviour. "31st October, Halloween."

He growled in anger, though it was barely audible, "the year?"

She scoffed, clearly irritated at how he was acting, "1960."

His face paled under the glow of the light, now appearing to be nothing more than a ghost. His mouth opened slightly, eyes wide and blank as they stared out down the streets of Liverpool.

"Fuck."

And with that he took off, feet hammering down on the gravel below him and his sprinted as fast as his body would allow, disappearing down the path and into the night.

_**I hoped you liked it! It took me a long time to write this. Please leave a review! I promise that the action and comedy will start soon, and k-unit shall be in it!**_

_**Please review and say if you liked it or not, thankyou for reading!**_


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